by Nancy Gideon
"Go,” Louis told her.
As they resumed their journey, she asked, “He's been with you for a long time?” There was so much to learn about Louis and his life. So much she didn't know. In time, she would discover all. She looked forward to it.
"Takeo has served me well since I rescued him from poverty as a child. He has no power of speech, so our communication means all the more to him."
"He is your initiate."
"He is my friend.” He was silent for a moment, unspoken concerns crowding his brow.
She glanced at him, feeling his distress. “What is it, Louis?"
"Our arrangement has slowed his aging. He is over two hundred years old."
She gasped but never disbelieved. Louis turned toward her, anxiousness lining his face.
"What will happen to him when I revert? Will he resume his natural age and fall into dust?"
"I don't know, Louis. I've had no experience in such things."
"How can I cut him off from the treasured communication we share? What kind of reward is that for his loyalty?"
She touched his knee. His hand found hers, their fingers lacing together in the dark.
"If he is your friend, he will understand your desire to return to a normal life."
"Another of those sacrifices I seem so eager to accept in order to save myself?"
She didn't respond to those once bitterly spoken words. She didn't know what to say to take the sting of moral conflict from his heart. She could have argued that he'd already given his friend a life expectancy well beyond his natural years. But that truth would give no comfort. So she said nothing as she wheeled the car into police headquarters.
Their destination shocked Louis from the morose turn of his thoughts.
"Why are we here, Stacy?"
"I'm here to go into incredibly deep debt to a friend."
* * * *
Charlie Sisson eyed Louis as he stepped past him to offer a hearty hug for his former partner.
"So this is good-bye?"
"Don't get all misty-eyed on me, Charlie,” she chided, contrarily blinking away the dampness rimming her own. She chafed the sleeves of his rumpled lab coat, frowning at the stains of his last autopsy and spaghetti sauce. “You need to find yourself another wife."
"No one would take as good care of me as you did, Stace."
He moved back, nodding to himself, then reached into the huge pocket of his gruesomely patterned coat. He placed a packet of documents in her hand.
"Here's everything, including a passport to your new life as the widowed Mrs. Benthen. You'll be escorting the poor departed Mr. Benthen to his final resting place. All the paperwork is here, everything you need, with the exception of Mr. Benthen, whom I cremated earlier this evening. I assume you'll be supplying the deceased.” His gaze touched pointedly upon Louis, but he kept his summations to himself.
"Charlie, you are the best friend a girl ever had."
He accepted her kiss with a difficult to maintain neutrality. “And don't you forget it,” he murmured. “Now, can I also assume I'll be getting less night time business once you and your friend have left town?"
"I think that would be a safe assumption, though not completely under our control."
Charlie raised his brows at that reply, reassessing her companion's role in the about to end drama. “So, your friend here isn't the one—"
Stacy smiled. “No. Just an innocent bystander with an unfortunate past. But that's all about to change.” She glanced at Louis, the glow in her eyes giving everything away.
Seeing it, Charlie grinned, pleased with that unexpected turn of events. “I hope you know what you're doing, Kiddo."
"I've never been more certain."
And the smoldering look she gave to her very alive-looking, albeit for the record recently deceased, ‘husband’ convinced Charlie that he had no cause for worry. Stacy Kimball had found happiness at last.
"You'd better get going,” he said gruffly. “You've got a plane to catch. Someone's already booked you into first class, Stace, but your friend, unfortunately, will have to settle for cargo."
* * * *
Early morning came with a lifting of the mists and an awe-inspiring view of the Cascades as the vehicle approached SeaTac Airport. Shades of pink and gray gradually climbed the distant peaks as sun rise reflected off the western range. Seattle was giving her a majestic sendoff.
But strangely, though she'd lived in the Seattle-Tacoma area all her life, she felt no pang of separation. Instead, anticipation rose in steady measured degrees, just like the daybreak she hoped to soon share with the man she loved. Her future held the same promise as the crisp blue heavens waking in pristine layers above her. Soon she would be one with that cerulean sky, crossing an ocean, spanning the distance between old life and new, on a wing and a prayer.
Usually brusque baggage handlers greeted her with respectful murmurs as she and her gleaming cargo passed through Customs. The officer who took her papers expressed condolences, but his clearing stamp remained untouched.
"Is there a problem?” she asked at his hesitation.
"No, ma'am. Just a little extra governmental red tape this morning. It shouldn't take but a minute."
Dread twisted a tight knot in her belly as Stacy watched the customs officer turn to hand her forged passport to a uniformed military man on the other side of his station. She took a fateful step forward, craning to see a meticulously stitched cheek beneath impenetrable dark glasses. She didn't move, couldn't breathe as Cobb examined the fake documents and then looked at her. In his hands, he held her freedom, her future. And with a word, both would disappear.
Slowly, he handed the folder back to the Customs officer.
"Stamp it. Sorry for the delay, Mrs. Benthen. And sorry for your loss."
As she accepted the cleared document and her papers back, Stacy managed a faint, “Thank you, Captain."
But Cobb was already looking beyond her, toward the next exiting tourist. They passed silently, within inches of each other.
"Stop!"
The cry echoed from across the busy Customs area. A path appeared between the travelers and their stacks of luggage, opening the way for Greg Forrester and two armed guards.
"Stop the flight!"
Cobb stepped in front of Stacy, covertly pushing her on her way as he said to the Customs man, “Call airport security. And get these people on board as soon as possible. They'll only be in the way. I want this area cleared."
"All right, Captain. On your say so.” He picked up the phone and began to dial.
Cobb went out to greet the breathless and angry Forrester.
"Didn't you hear me? That was Stacy Kimball. Why didn't you stop her?” Forrester hissed in a low, angry aside.
"Mr. Forrester, you're making a mistake."
But Cobb's calming tones couldn't reach through Forrester's rage. He took one last look at the woman hurrying up the companionway and at the casket gliding away on the cargo conveyor belt then turned to the guards behind him to order fiercely, “Stop her. Shoot her. She's getting away with everything that belongs to me."
Never making a conscious decision, Cobb acted, wrestling with the first guard for control of his weapon, but the second lifted his rifle without hesitation and took aim between Stacy's shoulder blades.
"No!"
Stacy heard Cobb's cry and turned toward him just as the guard fired. The rest happened like the slow fanning of motion cards, the discharge of the gun, the projection of the bullet, her recoil that could never be fast enough to get her out of harm's way.
And then a blur passed in front of her, and the danger was gone.
At her feet lay Takeo, the bullet meant to take her in the chest piercing his brave heart. Stunned and weeping, she knelt down, but one look at his rapidly glazing eyes told her he was beyond help.
Take care of him.
That final wish whispered through her head, and smiling softly, she squeezed his hand.
"I will."<
br />
Stacy responded vaguely to the tugging at her arm. It was the Customs official.
"Ma'am, there's nothing more you can do here. Your flight's about to leave. This is a government matter. Please, let them handle it."
Because she had to, because to linger would have the official wondering if she were more than just an innocent bystander, Stacy walked away without a backward glance, holding the memory of Takeo's sacrifice close to her heart where it would reside forever alongside her gratitude for Frank Cobb.
"We had her,” Forrester was seething at the enigmatic Captain Cobb. “I watched the security tapes. She took samples from her lab before it was destroyed. She didn't die with Starke. I saw her leave the building. Don't you understand? You let her get away. I had her and the research she stole from me."
"You had nothing, Mr. Forrester,” Cobb stated with chill certainty. “It wasn't her. I checked the lady through myself, right up close and personal. Don't you think I would have recognized Doctor Kimball?"
"It wasn't—” Forrester glanced at the fallen man and at his two gunmen, the seriousness of his situation sinking in at last. Shaken by his mistake, he took a stiff step back, already seeking a way to distance himself from the debacle. He could see the airport security team jogging down the corridor, hands on holsters. A hard glint of self-preservation glazed his eyes.
Let Cobb assume responsibility.
Apparently, his employee was of the same mind, insisting, “You need to go, sir. You need to get out of here before security arrives. I'll handle things."
"But that man—"
"Is the dangerous felon we were after. He's wanted for international espionage. He was our target all along. I'll make sure all the necessary warrants are drawn up.” Cobb smiled grimly in the face of Forrester's horrified dismay. “Trust me, sir. I'll make it go away. Erasing problems is part of my job."
"Thank you, Cobb. I'll see you get a bonus for this."
Cobb glanced toward the companionway where anxious staff were busy closing it off and clearing the way for emergency personnel. “No need, sir. It's all in a day's work."
Fifteen minutes later, Stacy was in the air.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Warm air blew in from the open window to wrap lovingly about her, caressing her bare arms and teasing playfully through her unbound hair. Outside, torchlight created a crystal clear reflection of the sprawling, mosque-like structure in the still black waters of the bassin. She'd been gently informed upon arrival that it was not, as she'd assumed, a swimming pool lined by a fringe of graceful date palms, but instead a very practical way to collect precious irrigation waters from the mountains beyond. She admired the blend of seductive beauty and utility. And she knew she would love this place. It embraced her with a sense of permanence.
The ocher-colored walls reinforced with straw seemed to have stood for centuries with their thick, fortress-like stance, romantic towers and palatial arches. Jetting from the techno-steel of the twenty-first century into this exotic world where rich aromas and Moroccan leather spiced the air, and ancient mystery seemed to rise up from the desert sand like a mirage, left her faintly disoriented and yet willing to be tempted by the lure of a Sheharizade fairy tale. The tension of hours past finally surrendered to the cleansing winds.
Amanjena was not a Sultan's playground but rather a brand new resort catering to luxury and relaxation, its name meaning peaceful paradise. To Stacy, it was a haven, a wellspring from which she would arise, renewed.
She stepped back into the room, awed all over again by the soaring ceiling and whispering draperies, their pale tangerine color mixing like a tart splash of flavor with the orchid-tinged columns and sunken couches of the private menzah in their suite. A bricked floor circled a small, fountained pool strewn with rose petals. Elaborate tiling climbed halfway up the walls. Oranges from a nearby grove sat out beside a mint tea service in an inviting lantern glow. The sound of water was everywhere, cooling, hypnotic and restful. Closed behind the twenty-foot-high entry doors carved with Berber designs, it was a world apart from a world gone mad, and just what Stacy needed.
She crossed from the partially covered gazebo into the dressing area with its twenty-six-foot-high domed ceiling. Here the colors were soft and glowed against the lacquered wall and meticulous parquetry. And the only thing out of place was the long, rectangular box she'd brought with her. Her fingertips trailed across its smooth finish.
Soon.
She answered a modest tap at the door to see a traditionally garbed room service waiter bearing a tray.
"A-salaam alaykum. Peace be with you,” came his greeting as he carried the fragrant Tandoori sea bass to a small private table. He bowed out of the room and, as the door closed softly, she heard a welcomed voice behind her.
"A kingdom befitting my princess."
She turned into his arms. “Oh, Louis, this place is a dream."
"It's a reality from which we may never wish to wake,” he corrected as his lips brushed her brow.
They held one another for a long moment. Then she could tell the precise instant his thoughts focused on his martyred servant. His pain was a palpable emotion.
"I'm so sorry about your friend. He saved us both, though I know that is scant consolation."
Louis hugged her closer and sighed against her hair. “He is at peace, and for that I am grateful. And for you, I am more grateful still."
His kiss was as sweet and exotic as the night air, a light flickering hint of what would come later.
"What made you choose Marrakesh?” she asked, revolving in his embrace so that she rested back against the sturdy support of his chest. “When you said you'd arranged for our airfare, I had no idea this was the destination you had in mind. I was expecting something a little more ... mundane. Have you been here before?"
"Long before it offered luxuries such as these. I thought it a lovely oasis in which to lose ourselves until we wish to be found. And eventually, when you are ready and if you are willing, we can have a private facility built, here or anywhere on the globe, where you can continue your research without interference, to be used only for the purposes intended. The choice is yours. Whatever will make you happy."
"But the money—"
He shrugged elegantly. “What is money if it can buy nothing worthwhile?"
She'd almost forgotten that she was with one of the wealthiest—and most generous—men in the world.
"So,” he crooned, “how does this compare with your rainy Seattle?"
"I love it.” She leaned her head back upon his shoulder, her eyes closing. “I love you."
His mouth touched briefly to her temple, tasting its warmth and pulse, drawn irresistibly to both. Defiantly, he turned so that his cheek rested against her hair.
She could feel his hunger rising.
"Stacy, I want this to be the start of our life together, as one and the same being. Use the serum so that I might join you in this celebration."
She stiffened slightly, not ready to face the harsh facts of what they'd escaped. “It hasn't been tested, Louis."
"Then test it now, my love. I have waited centuries and find I cannot wait another second longer."
She moved away from him, the beauty of the mood spoiled by her anxieties. Trying to summon up her clinical objectivity, she searched in her bag for the vial.
"There's only one. I lost the others in the parking garage at Harper. I just hope they broke. At least they're unmarked and will give nothing away."
He reached out to take the vial from her, handling it with the reverence due a religious artifact. “But will this be enough?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about the others."
She was distracting herself from what she didn't want to confront—the truth of whether or not she could cure him. Never before, not even with her own case, had she felt so pressured to succeed. Never would the outcome of her work be experienced so personally, so intimately.
"I thought you had unshakab
le faith in your ability, Doctor Kimball?"
His gentle chiding chafed up her pride. She regarded him through coolly professional eyes.
"I do."
"And I have faith in you. Just do it. There is no other way to know for sure."
Of course, he was right.
She prepared the injection as he stoically pushed up his sleeve.
"Should something happen to me, I want you to know that I've already signed all that I own over to you to use honorably as you see fit."
Stacy snapped the syringe and grinned at him. “Now that is faith."
The lightness of the moment wouldn't hold. Their gazes mingled for a last loving communion, then she became what she had to be—a scientist about to explore one of the greatest unknowns—life.
He didn't react as she swiftly injected the serum.
"There,” she remarked tautly. “It's done. You should sit down."
Louis never made it as far as the low couches.
Terrible pain gripped his middle, doubling him over, then dropping him to the woven Berber rug. Excruciating agony twisted through his veins, alternately burning and freezing, leaving him gasping on hands and knees. Tremors quaked along limbs that could no longer hold him. Then the brick floor felt cool beneath the inferno blazing within him.
"Louis."
He heard Stacy's voice from far away, a pleading echo of what he couldn't hold or reach or even retain.
Light seared his eyes, his brain, his being.
He was dying. Or he was being reborn.
Bella, call me to you. Show me the way. Do not desert me now.
Then there was nothing.
Hours had passed.
Stacy paced the opulent suite, restless in her own helplessness. All she could do was wait. It was up to fate now as to whether or not her skills were adequate to save the man she loved.
She wanted a cigarette. Desperately.
Instead, she forced herself to eat the exotic meal alone and satisfy her cravings with mint tea. A poor substitute when her nerves were screaming for relief.
Louis lay unmoving upon one of the low cot-like benches next to the sunken pool. He was still, as still as when she'd first seen him at his preternatural rest. No trace of breathing moved his chest. There was no pulse, no heartbeat. But no damning signs of death, either. Just this maddening immobility that told her nothing of his condition.
